Waking and Darkness
by realhermoine
Summary: AU. One Shot. Harry is an English Soldier in the 1800s, and is looking for Draco in a foreign land. Will he be successful?


**Waking and Darkness**

**By: RealHermione**

They will have received word of him by now. A dark speck against the light sand isn't too common. Dark horse, dark uniform, dark hair. The darkest they ever see are the strips of skin and hair that show through their flowy garments. The distant city's tallest buildings could only be seen for the sun glinting off the burnished tiles. If Harry Pennyfeather cared at all about his health, he would be inside, under cover from the sun. If there was any friendly cover, that is. The horse is wheezing his thirst, but then that's the point. If the soldier had needed an animal that would last, he would have taken a camel. They would have given him a camel. The horse isn't supposed to last the day, if the enemy does their job right. He takes another drink from his water bag. It's almost empty; he's not used to the heat.

Anytime now he expects to see a cloud of dust coming from their camels. They will ride up, knowing that he cannot get away fast enough. Won't get away fast enough. But they don't know the second one. They are as much in his trap as he is in theirs. Actually, they are in the British government's trap. Harry is just the instrument of their almighty hand. The skin on his nose tarts to ache. A mix of sunburn and being in the same position; screwed up from squinting. His outfit does not help with the heat, and his sweat does not show for it's darkness. Another ploy to convince the enemy that he is an imbecile. In a sudden moment, he feels a small pinprick on the back of his neck. The soldier recognizes the effects of a strong tranquilizer. He leans forward in the saddle, trying to assume a position that won't hurt when he falls. The horse does not react, half dead as it is. There are footsteps behind him and Harry tries to keep his eyes open just long enough to have a view of the attacker. There are light clothes and a heavily browed face. Then darkness.

/\\\/\\\

Harry wakes up on an uneven floor. The cobbles are hitting his body in awkward spots. There are no bars, just two men nearby. He expects pain from the fall, but it never comes. Before opening his eyes further he assesses himself. The things he needs are still hidden about his person. The two men may think they have all his weapons. They would be wrong.

He gets up onto his elbows and looks at the men. They are dark, as to be expected. It is the dark of this area, the crux of the world. The current problem. They look at him and one motions for Harry to get up. The other, slightly shorter and with sharp features, points towards a door. The soldier gets up gingerly and swaggers to it. They come up to him on either side, grabbing his arms, almost as an afterthought. The door opens with a push and Harry is surprised at the lack of security. Perhaps they did not think that he deserved much security. They didn't know if he would have fought. Harry looks around at the new surroundings. The three men, guards and prisoner, are at the end of a long hallway. The decor is very bland, and not the expected prison cells. It looks more like a place for animal pens, but the smell isn't right. They reach another door, a carved one that looks like it never got the coat of varnish meant for it. The taller man opens it, and from how he moves the door has some heft. The guards lead Harry through and into a pristine entryway. The walls are cream, there is a mosaic on the floor, and the ceiling is domed. The other side of the door is varnished. There are three hallways leading off from this room and we take the one to the right.

He studies his captors. The shorter one is constantly moving his hands, and the other seems irritated by it. His eyes dart back to them every few moments, then look away, blinking hard. Both of them look too smart to be henchmen, but then, some people are born into features like that. Just like some people are born into beauty, or ugliness, or harshness.

The hall has window holes on one side. There is no glass. The ground is 15 feet down, too tall for a jump, unless one has been trained. Which Harry has. The other wall has tapestries. Not the kind the British like. These are the kind that look like rugs with their heft. Some have people sewn in great detail. Others have a pattern. One has a horse in the background.

He wonders what became of the horse. It was old. The captain thought it should have been used one more time, as a last hurrah. It is probably dead now. Harry never knew the name.

He is lead out of the hallway and into what looks like a throne room. If a giant cushion next to a table of fruit can be considered a throne. There are smaller cushions all around, mostly holding girls who look like they were born into the harem. The room is round. There are window holes, tapestries and a high domed ceiling. It is tiled a deep orange color and there are more window holes near the top, letting in a scant bit of light. Incense is burning in little pots around the walls, clouding the room and his lungs. There is a reason Harry does not have a pipe. He likes breathing fresh air. English air.

He is lead forward and pushed to his knees in front of the rotund man on the dais. There is a girl on either side of him. Their talents probably have little to do with the educated arts, if the cut of their clothing is anything to go by. The man looks at Harry and raises an eyebrow. The guards each have a hand on his shoulders. The large man shoos the girl away and they disappear out of Harry's peripheral vision. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Tell me, English soldier," his English has a very heavy accent, but it is good "did you think we would not see you? Did you think that being out there" he made a nonchalant hand motion towards the desert "in the middle of the day would not kill you and that horse? No…you did not." He smiled in an oily, self-satisfied way. A way that would send a trail of sweat down many spines. The incense was getting to Harry. His mind was getting foggy, slower. His tongue felt heavy. No doubt everyone else in proximity was immune to it's effect. To them, it was a familiar smell. To him, a drug. He tried to speak. It was hard, but His voice was firm.

"Well, a talking monkey, look at that. I'm surprised that you could see through the flies to notice my nationality. But then, your stupidity—" he was cut off by a slap from the man the right. He hit hard. Harry had bitten my cheek. He spit blood onto the shoes of the guard. He grabbed to back of Harry's head, pulling until he was facing the man on the cushion again.

This was part of the plan. Get them so angry that they forget that Harry seemed to be waiting for them. Now all he had to do was get to the real dungeons. The ones with bars, chains and the probable skeleton or two. That's where he needed to be. That's where he needed to find Draco, If he was alive.

The large man looked angry, a nasty sort of angry. The kind that makes one want to throw people in dungeons. Perfect. He continued.

"Well, well, England's finest sure do not live up to expectations. And your country—excuse me—Empire wonders why we won't submit. Pity."

He nodded to the men and they tugged Harry up to his feet. The rotund man didn't say anything else when they dragged him from the room. The girls went back. One his way from the room, Harry yelled back.

"You think you have power? Just wait, your city will fall. And I will laugh when it does!" The guards took a harder hold of him and turned back to the cushion. The man had one eyebrow raised.

"As unlikely as that possibility is, you should still be punished for your…achem…sins." He made a complex hand gesture the guards and they turned back around, steering Harry away.

He was led out of the hall and into a side door. It was a tiny room. There were stains on the walls and the floor was rough, dusty stone. The guards pushed Harry to the middle of the room, and he kept goading them. He was not sure if these men understood English to the same degree as their leader, but tone of voice is universal. He was left facing the back wall, and they were behind him. One man, the tall one, whispered something to the other, and they both started laughing.

Then, the beating started. A fist to the head first, knocking Harry to His knees. A kick to the stomach. A fist again, somewhere more tender. The men were enjoying this. Harry was also, but for much different reasons. He would either be killed or would know of Draco soon. He highly doubted the possibility of the first, so curled up on the floor, protecting his head.

/\\\/\\\

He woke up to white. There was no definition, just white. Maybe the men had indeed killed him. What a waste. This could be heaven, though Harry had done things to ensure that a lifetime of repentance would not help in that regard. And then his head began to throb. Focus came and a room appeared. White ceiling, walls, bed. He was on his back against something hard and the straps holding Him there where white. There was a strap around his chest, two for each arm, three for his legs, and a thicker one for the stomach. The board behind him was on a slant, with head towards the floor. Not heaven then. There were two doorways, one covered in gauze and one with the door slightly ajar. That was a good sign. The fact that English speaking voices could be heard was significant. Harry tried to move around a bit, to test the give of the straps. he stopped when the skin on my wrists began to chafe. When they came off, wrists would be added to the list of sores. His body felt like it wanted to grow to twice its size and shrink rapidly at the same time. Not a pleasant feeling.

Harry lost some hope. His plan could not have worked, unless they keep their dungeons white and spotless. Considering his current position, this was probably some sort of torture chamber, the white in place to better see blood. His blood. The voices grow louder. They are outside the door and then they are in. The two goons from before…and Draco, wearing a white that matches the room. His hair, white blond, does it on its own.

Harry widens his eyes like he is supposed to. He starts to take in the turn of events. The officers assumed wrong. Their original plan did work. He start to move his mouth, getting his voice back in working order. The three men are in the corner, looking over to Harry and whispering. Draco has an evil smirk on his face and the guards are looking smug.

"YOU BLOODY TRAITOR" Harry suddenly yells, working some desperation into his voice. Perfect timing. He could have gone into the theatre. Harry receives a sneer for his troubles. They both could have gone into theatre. Draco steps away from the men and walks towards Harry. His walk has a graceful fluidity that has always mystified most people. He kneels down near Harry's feet, hands resting on knees.

"I wouldn't call me the traitor" he says in his rich Oxfordian accent " you are the one who was caught in the middle of the desert, after all." He smirks again. He reaches his long fingered hand around under the board and turns something. Harry's feet raise up, forcing more blood to his head. Draco then takes something from the floor and moves it towards Harry's face. He struggles, as much as possible, but Draco forces something between his teeth and smoothes the strap around the back of his head. It has the texture of balled up stockings and leeches the moisture from Harry's mouth instantly. He can't say any more, but continues to struggle. Draco draws his hand back and slaps him on the face. Harry blinks tears away as he faces the men.

"Thank you for your work on him before hand. It will make this much easier. You can go" he waves them away with a gesture. They nod with mock graciousness and turn to go. The shorter one reaches the door first, but turns around and gives the prisoner a wicked smile.

"Don't expect your former countryman to be merciful. He loves her majesty no longer." After receiving an eyebrow raise from Draco, both leave. Before the door is shut all the way, Harry catches a glimpse of the setting sun. Night.

With the thud of the door, Draco waits a few seconds, then rushes at Harry, tearing the straps off his upper body and the material from his mouth with an unholy fervor. There are tears in his eyes. When the last wrist cuff is gone, Harry moves towards him. It is hard, but through the pain he grabs Draco and holds tighter than ever before. He embraces back and buries his face in Harry's neck. He can feel the tears in his own eyes, and does not try to blink them back. The position is awkward for both men, but they need this. Harry takes a deep breath. Draco's familiar smell is now tinged with spices and incense. Harry pushes his face into white-blond hair, muffling sobs of relief.

Draco's fingers tighten around his back and Harry cannot suppress a whimper, much to his shame. Harry is off him like a shot, face filled with concern. Harry tries a half smile, but manages a wince. Draco's eyes widen and he shoots to end of the board, undoing whatever was holding the feet elevated. He then undoes the straps on each leg. That finished, Draco is back to kneeling next to Harry, hands holding his and rubbing circles with his thumbs. Harry looks him in the eyes, lost in them as ever. He am afraid to say anything. He thinks Draco is afraid to say anything. It has been a long time and he am not sure where to start. Draco raises a hand and runs it along Harry's cheek, brushing the bruise he made. Seeing the look on his face, Draco's eyes widen and he moves to Harry's side, helping him up. Harry leans heavily on him, enjoying the contact. He leads him to the bed and helps him to lie down. The bed is soft and Harry groans in pleasure. Draco smiles and sits next to him. Harry smiles and Draco starts to speak.

"We have no ice, so you will have to heal with time, I wish I could help bu—" he stops, realizing that he is rambling. He never used to ramble. He takes a hold of Harry's hand and caresses it with his thumb. With his other hand, he takes a glass of water from the side table and holds it to parched lips. Harry drinks, remembering being in this exact position before. Draco's smile lets him know that he remembers too. Harry remembers what followed. Draco sets the glass back on the table, not breaking eye contact. His eyes have always drawn in and held Harry. They are a stormy gray that darkens with his moods. He has said that his fathers were the same color, but more harsh, the gray more gunmetal than cloudy when his was angry. Draco speaks again.

"Besides the bruises, you have changed, Harry" He runs a finger along the scar at Harry/s temple that he knows leads to a patch of gray hair. It was not there the last time they saw each other. Harry raises his hand to cover Draco's. His expression softens and he cups Harry's face. Harry starts to feel tired. The beating wore him out, but there are things to be sure of before he can rest.

"Is this safe? Are we safe? I thought you were dead." Draco gives him a small smile and makes a shushing sound.

"They think you are receiving some outlandish torture treatment now. Or I could be monologueing. One of the two."

"Before, when you were talking to those men, you said that the 'work they had done' would make something easier. What was that the 'something'?"

"As far as they knew, yes."

"And as far as they did not know?"

"They just made falling back in love with you the easiest thing of my life." And Draco kissed him.


End file.
